


In the Shadow of the Stone Empress

by jadrea



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Dad Daud, Dishonored: The Knife of Dunwall, Dunwall (Dishonored), Flooded District, Gen, Minor Original Character(s), Overseers - Freeform, Whalers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 07:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30119502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadrea/pseuds/jadrea
Summary: The invasion of Overseer Hume leaves Whalers dead and Daud with blood on his hands.
Relationships: Daud & The Whalers (Dishonored), Daud & Thomas (Dishonored)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	In the Shadow of the Stone Empress

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate conclusion to the events of "The Surge" mission (The Knife Of Dunwall DLC), before the events of The Brigmore Witches DLC.

Thomas the Whaler was laughingly, mockingly referred to as the Heart of the Flooded District, the Soft-Eyed Whaler. The man who blinked carefully over the water to avoid disturbing the hagfish below, who spent hours on the rooftops sharing his bread with the crows who nested there. Who would derail a mission to remove a civilian from harm's way, and endure Daud's subsequent berating in silence.

He never raised his voice, always spoke softly, stood quietly, looking with those soft eyes of his. Though the others mocked him for it, they tread carefully around him and agreed there was a limit to their jokes. They wished only to poke and prod at the Soft-Eyed Whaler, not to wound him.

And though his eyes were soft, they never welled. A tear never fell. Not since he was a child, not since he'd joined the Whalers, not since he'd become accustomed to the heavy weight of the world, of life in Dunwall. Not since he'd learned it did no good to cry.

Now, though, Overseer fists drew tears of pain to his eyes against his will, the mechanical song of their music boxes driving him to his knees, keeping him from leaping away.

His mask had been ripped away and crushed in the fist of the one they called Hume. A tall, hulking man with a permanent sneer, Hume had caught them by surprise. The Overseers marched into the Flooded District as the Whalers' guard was down, as Daud was away, and overwhelmed them. Those damned music boxes muddling their senses.

Thomas tried to stand firm at the doors of Daud's chambers, tried to keep his master's inner sanctum safe and free from Overseer filth, but the attackers were relentless, pushing forward, surrounding him, until he was driven to the ground, humiliated that his eyes watered at the pain.

Hume stood by watching with disinterest, at his side one of the bronze-masked devils with that music box, the melody swirling into Thomas' ears, rattling his brain, all but blinding him.

He wondered when Hume would tire of it, of the beating. He'd said nothing as his Overseers had set to work, their fists working Thomas' flesh to a pulp, the butts of their swords cracking over and over again at his temple. Through it all, their leader stood silent.

When a boot landed hard in Thomas' gut, nearly pushing him off his knees, he couldn't stop the pained cry. At the sound, Hume held up a hand.

"Daud keeps his pets on a short string. This one won't talk. Perhaps the others." Hume turned away. "Dispatch him."

Thomas began to shout a curse in his wake. That music box--if it would cease its damned screeching, he could fight to his feet, could rush at Hume and send a crossbow bolt into his eye. But the box sang on, and the Overseer leader stepped away, and a blade pierced Thomas' stomach, turning his shout to a wheeze.

He could do nothing as the Overseers roughly pulled him to his feet and shoved him down the hall. As they pushed him out the window, past the ruined fans and boarded-up windows of the levels below. As he fell to the gravel courtyard at the heart of the Chamber of Commerce building, landing hard on his back, his crushed and ruined mask landing at his side.

He could do nothing but stare up at the sky and choke on the blood in his mouth.

*

He'd sent Billie Lurk away. Perhaps he should have killed her, should have made her suffer for her betrayal, but he knew he couldn't raise a hand against one of his own.

The Chamber of Commerce was a mess of blood and bodies, some Whaler, some Overseer. He'd ordered those who remained to be captured, despite the voice in his mind that told him he ought to flay them and leave their corpses on the steps of the Abbey, as a warning. There was no time for that, not with the others so near.

How he tired of spilling blood.

Daud stood in the hall outside his chambers, watching the Whalers on the walkways dragging Overseers away. He'd have to deal with them. Torture them, maybe. Eventually kill them, or return them to the Abbey. He wasn't sure which was worse.

He glanced to his right, out an interior window. He wasn't sure what drew his eyes that way, toward the view of smoke and foul-smelling air, a stink that rose from the corpses and filth that filled the rising waters of the Flooded District. Perhaps it was the black-eyed one, who usually watched and listened with disinterest, but, on occasion, lifted a hand to guide Daud to a truth he'd missed, he'd ignored.

Maybe it was the Outsider's hand that directed his eyes not to the window of the office across the courtyard, but down past the long-broken fans to the gravel below. There he saw a Whaler sprawled in a crimson pool. Its mask had been discarded, smashed on the ground beside the body. He recognized the face, even through the blood.

He knew all of his Whalers' faces, saw them in his dreams, in nightmares of blood and black mist.

He dropped down to the man's side. "Thomas."

Thomas' eyes were open, fixed on the sky above. Daud could've convinced himself he was dead were it not for the faint rise and fall of his chest. A great stain spread across the front of his tunic, around a ragged hole cut by an Overseer's blade.

"I'm sorry." The words came in a wheeze, a trickle of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. "I couldn't stop them, sir, I'm sorry."

"We drove them back," Daud said. "Bought some time. More will come, this is just the beginning. We've a fight ahead of us, Thomas."

"I can't-" Thomas' hands twitched, trying to push himself up, but he fell back, gasping. "Sir, I can't stand. I can't fight."

Daud had watched these Whalers as they trained, as they grew, and convinced himself that he managed to keep his distance. Told himself he was cold, that he'd lost his heart long ago. If he'd even had one to begin with.

But that was one of those truths the Outsider had relayed, with amusement, that he'd been ignoring.

 _"You care for your Whalers more than coin,"_ the Outsider had told him. _"You envy them, even, because they have what you never could--they have someone to guide them. Someone to mind them, to care for them."_ He'd delivered those last words with a twist to his lips. _"And you lead them, Daud, like blood ox calves to the slaughter. I wonder, do they respect you for it? Or do they resent you?"_

He wondered if the Outsider was right. Could such a being even be wrong? He led this band of orphans and street urchins, these souls cast to the side by a cruel city. Gave them a purpose, a reason to live. Some semblance of control over their fate, weapons to fight against the fear that hung heavy in the Dunwall air.

He led them--to what? There was no great future to be found in Dunwall, even before the city was ravaged by rats. In truth, this band of thieves and hired killers would meet their fate in a dark alley or at the point of a City Watch Guard's blade.

You didn't escape Dunwall, not when you'd sunk this deep into its underbelly. The city consumed you, destroyed you, rotted you from the inside-out, plague or no plague. And it was he, Daud, who would lead these souls to their grim fates.

Thomas' voice brought him back to the gravel courtyard. "Is it time?"

There was the slightest furrow to Daud's brow, it took all his will to keep his face even.

Thomas hadn't seen, the corners of his vision too hazy for his eyes to focus. "You're going to kill me, aren't you? I deserve it, I failed. I let them pass, I let them in."

"Thomas-"

The man was gasping for air against the sharp, stabbing ache in his gut. He could barely find the strength to lift his head and meet Daud's gaze.

"Just make it fast. Afford me that mercy, please. I can't bear the pain."

The Knife of Dunwall looked at him for a long moment, the furrow that creased his brow deepening by the moment. By the Void, the Outsider was right. Of course he was right. To see his Whalers bleeding, to see their sightless eyes searching for answers in a cruel, clouded sky, tore at Daud's cold heart. He could only lie to himself for so long, only see so many lives lost at his hand. Only spill so much blood. Only weather so many betrayals.

He surprised Thomas, and, more so, himself, by wrapping his arms around the man and pulling him into an embrace. Thomas bit back a cry as the motion sent a wave of agony through him.

"You did well, son," Daud murmured, against the top of Thomas' head. "You did well."

Thomas the Soft-Eyed Whaler did not weep. Not since he'd learned it did no good to cry.

But now, his tunic soaked with blood, his flesh torn and bruised, his face pressed into his master's chest, his shoulders heavy with the weight of all the dead in this dying city, Thomas the Whaler began to sob.

He lay limply in Daud's arms, heaving in weak gasps of air. Tears dripping down his cheeks, stinging the raw, open cuts that marred his jaw and split his lips. He sobbed until his eyes were too heavy to hold open, until the pain in his gut and his shoulder and his chest was too much. Then he succumbed to the darkness.

Daud held him as the tears gave way to quiet, ragged breaths. He sat silently, his jaw tightly clenched, his hands red with Thomas' blood.

After a time, he stood, lifting the Whaler as he did, and looked up to the window. In a moment, he was there, Thomas sagging at his side. He crossed the hall to his chambers, broken glass from the shattered doors crunching underfoot.

The assassin mounted the steps to the balcony, moving carefully, and laid the Whaler on the bed.

Daud stood for a moment, staring, his hands tightened to fists at his side. His palms were stained, he could smell nothing but that coppery stench. Felt it sting his nose, sink into his skin.

He turned away.

When Cawlins entered the room, Daud's fists were still clenched. He glared at the Overseer banners, those damned blue flags that hung along the walls, that taunted him, reminded him of the encampment close by, of the invasion that was to come. Of the blood that had been spilled, the blood of his people. It should have been his blood, not theirs. Not theirs.

And to think the Overseers had been brought here by his right hand, by the one he trusted above all others. By one he'd thought of as his own flesh and blood. How could he have let this happen? Was Billie right, was he naught but a weak old man, desperately clinging to a place in this world he no longer deserved?

Clinging to his position as leader of a band of ruffians and criminals who were doomed to die on the streets of the city that had disowned them?

"Sir?"

Daud shook himself and looked over.

"We took casualties, sir."

His voice was gruff, hoarser than usual. "How many?"

"Seven dead. Several others-" The Whaler's eyes flicked upward to where Thomas lay, sleeping fitfully on Daud's cot. "-are seriously wounded. The rest of us will manage."

"Bring them here." Daud clasped his hands behind his back. "You were once a doctor's apprentice, were you not? Treat them."

"I'll do my best." Cawlins bowed his head. "And the dead?"

The Knife of Dunwall felt a heavy weight on his shoulders, and straightened his back. "Gather them on the walkways. We mourn them tonight."

"Yes, Daud."

A fight was coming. With the Overseers, with Delilah, with the inevitability of the end.

How long until all his Whalers bled out in his arms? Until his crimes caught up with him and the shadow of the stone empress fell dark and heavy over this drowning district?

How long until the Knife of Dunwall must face his end, the fate the Outsider assured him was coming?

He only hoped he was strong enough to see it through.


End file.
